HUNTER: Addicts and the mentally ill torpedoing urban 'quality of life'
In Canada, politicians have been convinced that the homeless, drug-addicted and mentally ill should be allowed to make their own decisions.
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The way my friend Al Guart saw it, the theft itself was a little thing.
But it was also the straw that broke the camel’s back.
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For years, Al covered the Mafia for the New York Post, where I worked with him. A job that was not without some level of danger. You would think that would have inoculated him to the petty crime that had creeped into every crevice of the Big Apple.
Cops refer to these as “quality of life” crimes.
“They stole a f***ing broom off my front porch. They went to the effort of going through a gate and taking the broom,” Al told me later. “A f***ing broom.”
Of course, it wasn’t just the broom. That was only the cherry on top. So Al and his family decamped.
That was in the 1990s in New York. And if you talk to almost anyone in Southern Ontario, they’ll offer similar anecdotes. Crimes so stupid they are breathtaking. But it isn’t the dough or loss — it’s the violation and the depressing knowledge that even if these zombies are caught, they will be quickly sprung to unleash more mayhem.
On Sunday morning, a member in good standing of the living dead started smashing my fence hard in central Hamilton. When confronted, he began moving along. Then he circled back.
Around that time, my wife received a text message from Amazon informing her that a package was at our door. She went to the front porch minutes later, and it was gone.
Two weeks ago, one of these all-stars of humanity went through our gate and entered our back porch, where she made off with my wife’s leather jacket and a pair of $125 Nikes.
The next day, she tried to enter our backyard, informing us that she lived here. And as “Sarah,” as she’s known, scurried away, we noticed: She was wearing my wife’s shoes.
I live down the street from a fire station. Over the past year, sirens have been blasting at all hours of the night. I asked a fire captain I know, “What gives?” I already knew, but wanted to hear it from him. Fentanyl overdoses. 24/7.
Dinner parties and bar conversations are now punctuated with tales of the undead. Mentally ill, hopelessly hooked on fentanyl and other goodies from clandestine labs and desperation. They are making our cities increasingly uninhabitable.
A colleague living in Toronto splurged on a $400 dinner for himself and his wife. It was a memorable night, but not in a good way.
“We were late because of yet another Palestinian protest that was blocking traffic,” he said. “When we came out of the restaurant, we were almost knocked over by the stench and they (mentally ill addicts) were all over the place, passed out.”
More recently, a three-block walk to the doctor’s along Queen St. E. was like running an obstacle course.
“One guy was passed out with a crack pipe in his hand, another guy was out cold, and a third one was screaming at passersby,” my colleague said, noting Union Station now seems to have more transients than commuters.
When New York City embraced the “broken windows” theory in the early 1990s, it was all about the little things. ‘Quality of life’ crimes like stolen brooms, the fence smashing and not having to dodge zombies on a night out.
Bust a guy free-riding on the N Train, and you discover he has outstanding warrants.
But in Canada, right now, the caring professions and faculty lounges have convinced politicians that the homeless, drug-addicted and mentally ill should be allowed to make their own decisions.
Because, as we know, three decades of that approach has worked out so well for the rest of us.
Most of all, it isn’t working for people who desperately need help.
@HunterTOSun
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